West of Eden
by CloudyDream
Summary: AU. Ned Stark was exiled after the failed Rebellion, and his children, born and raised in Braavos, have never set eyes on Winterfell before. They return to a Westeros where Rhaegar sits the Iron Throne. king in all but name; where Tyrion Lannister has sailed to Valyria, dreaming of dragons; where everything is different, but the Game is still on. Sequel to Those Who Stand Long.
1. Daenerys

**A/N**: Hello, there.  
This is the sequel to _Those Who Stand Long_ and I highly suggest you read that one first; I swear it's not that long.  
To all of you who reviewed/ favourited/ followed _Those Who Stand, _thank you so much; you're amazing. Many people asked where was Tyrion in this 'verse - well, here he is.

* * *

**West of Eden**

_And as we wind on down the road,_  
_our shadows taller than our soul..._

* * *

_**I  
Daenerys**_

Daenerys celebrated her thirteenth name day with a tournament.

It was not as if thirteen was a particularly important year in a woman's life, and the day itself did not mark any specific recurrence but for Queen Rhaella's death, and yet still a tournament was held. The smallfolk seemed to love tourneys as much as young knights did, and this year Prince Rhaegar had chosen the occasion of her sister's day of birth, as he had chosen Prince Aegon's name day the year before, and Princess Elia's the one before that.

Princess Elia had been crowned Queen of Love and Beauty on her name day, Daenerys remembered, when Ser Balon had won, and she idly wondered if someone would do the same for her this year.

Aegon, for one, had promised he would choose her, but they all know Aegon would never win. He liked his Dornish weapons too much for that, and favoured close combat, knives and, it was whispered, poisons. He would win every melee in a few years, she was sure, but he would never be much of a jouster. Still, at least he had offered.

"In the unlikely event of my victory," he had said with a flourished bow, and they'd all laughed. Jon, who liked to spend his time in the practice yard with Arthur Dayne rather than Oberyn Martell, had laughed the loudest of all.

"In the absolutely, extremely unlikely event of your victory, you mean." And then, to her. "Sorry, Dany. You deserve your flowery crown."

He had said the last part with a surprisingly straight face, and Dany remembered taking a moment to admire his obvious efforts, impressed.

"Maybe you should defend my honor, then."

"And lose mine in the process?"

Not even he had managed to keep a straight face for _that_, and Aegon had almost chocked himself on his wine, coughing for a whole minute in a sort of outburst which had promptly caused the boys to forget about the tournament and start comparing humiliating experience instead; but Daenerys hadn't forgotten.

The wine incident had been three days ago. Now it was the morning of the tournament, a bright, warm, summer day, and she sat between Rhaenys and Deana under a white silken curtain. The joust would last all day long, and likely even the day after. At the tournament on Aegon's name day, she remembered, the jousting went on for so long that the melee had to be moved to the early hours of the evenings on the second day.

Aegon asked her for a favor for good luck, the twinkle in his eyes giving away his mirth, and she had laughed. "What for, to see it rolling in the dirt?"

"Why, you wound me, dear Dany. Truly. Can I at least have a kiss?" His eyes were wide in pretend mockery, and he turned his gaze from Daenerys to Rhaenys. "And what about you, sweet sister? May I?"

Rhaenys, who had already given her favour to Ser Gulian Qorgyle of Sandstone, merely raised an eyebrow and gave her brother her hand to kiss. "You may."

Aegon sent an eye roll her way, and Rhaenys called out to his retreating back, loud enough to be heard. "And to think that jester will one day rule us all, may the gods watch over us all."

And then, lower, to Dany. "You might as well have given him an handkerchief, cousin." She always called Dany _cousin_, and she did as well. It fit her better, surely, than _aunt_. "He will need something to chase away all those pretty young maidens from his trail."

Mayhaps she should have, Dany knew it. _But it's funnier this way_.

Despite all his japes, Aegon won his first tilt easily enough. He was against some boy from the Vale, who was so nervous to be facing a prince that couldn't hold properly to his saddle when the lance hit his shield. Viserys won as well, against some lordling from the westerlands, and Jon unsaddled one of the Freys of the Crossing. In fact, it seemed to Dany that all of the knights she personally knew went on to the second tilts, all but Ser Oswell Whent who went against fellow Kingsguard Lyn Cobray.

The second round of jousting was even more exciting, with Ser Arthur riding as if he had been born on a horse. He faced off against Renly Baratheon from Storm's End, sending the younger knight to the ground with apparently no effort. Aron Santagar unhorsed Visery, Patrek Mallister of Seagard fell to a Lannister man with a frightful burn on half his face, and Jon had the supremely bad luck to be facing Jaime Lannister on his second tilt.

He placed in a good blow with his second lance, but was hit on his shield arm with such force that he could barely keep himself on his horse after that. Ser Jaime was declared the victor, and they exchanged some words she couldn't quite make out.

Rhaenys's handsome Dornish knight, Ser Gulian, had the brazenness to give her a bow from his saddle after unhorsing Ser Vance, and Dany was sure half the court must have noticed, but her cousin didn't much seem to care – she smiled back at him with a small wave of her hand, and Dany caught herself wishing she was half as bold as Rhaenys was.

The jousting came to a pause at midday, when the sun was too hot and the crowd t hungry to pay attention anymore. Cersei had disappeared, whether to her brother or to her lord husband Dany didn't know, and so they found themselves with little Daena to watch – her brother Tommen was a page, and likely already in one of the pavilions.

Dany went to get some refreshments, and found Jon sat on the stands when she came back. "In the absolutely, extremely unlikely event of your victory," Daenerys began, and she could _feel_ Jon roll his eyes. "I would have been glad for you."

"Oh, I think it went rather well," Rhaenys intervened, an amused smile on her face. "It was your first tourney, was it not? I don' think that affair in the Vale is supposed to count."

That affair in the Vale had been hosted by Lord Royce some six or eight moons before, cut short by Rhaegar's sudden return to King's Landing following the news of Benjen Stark's death. Dany still remembered how Aegon had been infatuated with a young Waynwood, declaring himself in love and forever faithful for all of a fortnight, and once even composing a drunken hymn to her beauty.

"Yes," she agreed, giggling at the memory. "That probably shouldn't count."

"I thank you for your confidence," he answered, dryly, before letting himself fall on the seat next to hers. "If we can talk of anything else…?"

"I cannot really think of anything else."

He let out a sound that might have been a small groan, and Dany smiled and shook her head, playing absentmindedly with a lock of her hair. Jon looked serious enough that she was almost tempted to make a jest about his attitude resembling his father's, but managed to restrain herself in time.

Jon was oddly restrained most of the times when Aegon was not around, and there wasn't much she could do. It was one of the reasons why she enjoyed Aegon's company so much, in fact, the way he brought out a bright side in everyone he knew, and yet even he didn't dare compare Rhaegar to Jon where the latter might hear.

She let out a sigh, a small one. _Boys._ _Why do they have to be so strange, I will never understand_.

The third and fourth tilts went on for all of the afternoon, the blows getting heavier and the jousting more impressive as the sun went down on the horizon. Rhaegar no longer gave the victory to the better knight, and those who weren't able to settle the joust with the three lances had to prove their valour with the sword instead. She saw more than a man who had to be carried out to the pavilions after a fight.

Four remained to fight the following day, Ser Arthur, Ser Jaime, Ser Andar Royce and Garlan Tyrell, who had unhorsed his own brother Loras in his last round. They all left the stands as the twilight turned the sky a deep violet and the moon started to rise, only to be joined by Aegon somewhere along the way.

"I will not even ask where you have been," Dany told him, with all the coolness she could muster as a newly turned thirteen-years-old. She might even have overdone it a little, because she sees Rhaenys making a face with the corner of her eye, but she saw Aegon blush a little as well, and that by itself made it worth it.

"There will be a banquet tonight," he said, swiftly. "They say Tyrion Lannister will be there."

_This surely is news_. Rhaenys raised one eyebrow and even Jon's head jerked up in surprise. Yes, Dany thinks, that might as well be the most interesting piece of information she's had all week.

"He returned?" Rhaenys asks. "When?"

"Oh, you must have heard, a week or so ago? He showed up in Sunspear –" He trailed off, smiling at his sister's curiosity. "You really had not heard?"

She was about to ask more when they were met by the Kingsguard – Dany was to reach the Keep in a litter she would share with her cousins and good-sisters, and even she knew better than ask Cersei about her younger brother. But perhaps…

"You were the favourite of the crown, Ser," she told to the handsome, blonde knight who was waiting by her litter. "They were all screaming your name."

"I live to please, My Lady," he answered with a wink and an elaborate bow. _So, _this _is where Aegon learned it…_

Then his gaze moved to Jon, and he gave out another easy smile. "No hard feelings, I hope."

Jon blurted a laugh. "All the hard feelings I have for you I carry from the time you made me run the yard in armour. Nothing else can compare."

Dany remembered that well – it had been the talk of the court for more than a fortnight.

"Tell me, Ser," she adds as she opens the curtains of her litter, letting Rhaenys go in first. "Has your brother truly returned?"

He smiled at that, a real, full smile, nothing like the curtsies and japes he offered to the world. Dany liked Ser Jaime well enough, and yet sometimes she found herself musing how they truly did not know him at all, wondering how the person behind the mask would look like.

When Tyrion was with him, she could catch a glimpse.

"He did, My Princess, a few days ago. Sent a bird from Dorne and landed in King's Landing yesterday," and then, acknowledging what she really wanted to hear, continued. "He has been talking of his tales, you will hear him soon enough. Truth be told, I couldn't get him to shut up."

She laughed, as she knew he meant her to, and got inside the litter as he walked away, watching his shape from behind the green silk curtain.

"Did you hear that?" She asked Rhaenys, excited. "Did you?"

The look in her eyes told Dany that, yes, she had, before the princess even spoke. "I suppose this makes for an exciting name day," she said idly, and Dany giggled.

"I suppose so."

Truth be told, she had not been well acquainted with Tyrion Lannister before he left Westeros to sail in the East, not nearly as close to him as Rhaenys had. She had been too young, for one, to easily cowed and impressed by her beautiful good-sister, who seemed to hate her own blood brother with a burning hate even bigger and hotter than all the fires in the Great Sept.

It had only been when the news of his departure had reached the court, some three or so years prior, that Daenerys had found herself interested in Tywin Lannister's younger son, the one, people said, who had dared to cross his father and go against his wishes and left the Seven Kingdoms all together. _They say he's gone looking for Asshai_, people murmured, and Dany had found herself spending many a sleepless night imaging Lord Tyrion's travels while she lulled herself to sleep.

He was indeed at the feast, Tyrion Lannister, every bit as she remembered, his mismatched eyes glowing in the candlelight. Danereys herself was sat near to her good-sister Dornish relations, which was about as far as she could possibly be seated from the Lannisters at the high table. Oberyn Martell was in front of her and Aegon was at his left; she sent him a suffering eye roll that was meet with a wink as he walked away and went to switch places with Jon – less than two seats away from where Tyrion Lannister was.

She hissed in an astonished sort of admiration at that. Switching seats was frowned upon – at least, it was before the wine started to flow – and could be taken as a mortal slight by those seated near. In fact, Dany mused, it would have been taken as an insult had Aegon been seated near to any other Dornishman than Oberyn who, despite everything, seemed to like Jon well enough. Elia would probably have words with them both over this, Daenerys knew.

The lack of a reaction from the Dornish prince did not stop Dany from glaring at Jon the moment he sat. "_I hate you_. If you had to switch places with someone, it should have been _me_. What did he offer you for this?"

_What a good occasion would it have been, to hear Tyrion's tales without his sister noticing_. Dany had seen enough of how Cersei got when she was displeased, and did not want any of that for herself.

"He needn't offer me anything," Jon laughed, raising his cup at her. "Nothing but the pleasure of your company, Dany."

And then he turned to Oberyn, brow furrowed. "And yours as well, I suppose."

"Careful you don't push it, boy," the older man warned, and Jon let out a sigh and didn't answer. He turned back to Dany instead, staring back at under her glare.

"_What_? It doesn't change anything for you anyway."

"I hate you all the same," Dany answered, emphatically. "You really are horrible when you are around each other. I liked you better when you were brooding."

Oberyn let out a burst of laughter at that, despite the fact that he was making a show of not listening, and Dany thought that Jon might have gone a bit pink.

_Small victories_.

"Let Aegon listen to Tyrion and his adventures tonight, Dany, when they are both drunk," he offered, in what sounded like a peace offering. "He is not going anywhere; you might as well find a better moment to sate your curiosity."

Dany looked at him, her eyebrows raised. She still couldn't manage the trick with one eyebrow only, like Rhaenys did, but this would have to work all the same.

"Such as?"

"Such, I am going to talk to him in two days, when the tournament is over and we'll all have some quiet."

And then, because this was where their conversation had been headed from the beginning. "Do you want to come with me? Do not worry, Cersei won't notice, she is to leave for Casterly Rock at dawn in two days."

It was her turn to raise a cup at him, smiling in thanks. "I would love to."

And that night Daenerys went to bed dreaming of Essos and Qarth and Asshai-by-the-shadows, deciding that one day she would have done the journey herself. _Jon and Aegon can come as well_, she concluded, half asleep. _We can all go together looking for Valyria, and Rhaegar won't have an excuse not to let me go_.

That night she dreamed of a bright red star shining over King's Landing and dragons flying under a leaden sky, except that it was no sky at all, but a clear stretch of water reflecting the whole world like a mirror. And then the cold came and the pool froze over, a thick coat of ice, and she could not see the dragons anymore.

They all went back to the tourney ground on the morrow, Dany fidgeting behind the draperies and wishing she could have ridden a horse instead. The air was even warmer than it had been on the first day, feathery fans waving like butterfly wings.

Jaime Lannister won against Arthur Dayne in the first joust of the day, after three rounds of jousting and a swordfight that lasted for what seemed like hours, their blunt blades reflecting the light of the sun as they moved in perfect harmony. It ended with ser Arthur's shield on the ground and Jaime's sword at his neck, the crowd shouting and whistling and cheering, and Ser Jaime himself wearing a silly smile, so much of a joyful child.

The tournament was over after that, or close enough. Ser Garlan unhorsed Andar Royce with his second lance, and he went on to lose to Ser Jaime after three tilts and a duel nowhere as exciting as the previous one had been.

The melee was held on the afternoon, and Dany's eyes darted to a lithe figure clad in the simple armour of a squire, and felt her blood rushing to her head all because her foolish immature cousin had gotten himself fighting against some twenty or thirty other men, all bigger than he was. Prince Oberyn caught her attention and smiled at her, and Daenerys found herself wishing fervently that none of these blades Aegon carried was truly poisoned.

_Of course not, do not be silly_, she told herself, but it was only after Aegon had been dismissed to the field, seventh-to-last among all these standing, that she felt at ease once again. It was a good result and she told him as much, but from the shine in his eyes and his proud smirk Dany could have wagered that he knew as much by himself already.

"But I thank you all the same," he said, and Dany answered with a half nod as her gaze passed over the stands, realizing she was far more eager to discuss the secrets of the Sorrows and the ruins of Old Valyria with Tyrion Lannister than she was to pay the necessary attention to believe that what was happening on the tourney ground was a real battle.

Aegon noticed.

"I had the most interesting chat with Lord Tyrion last night," he began, teasingly, and Dany knew where he was heading.

"– And when was that, dear cousin?" She interrupted him before he could go on, mockingly. "When you left your assigned seat, giving you poor Uncle Oberyn such a great offence? I do hope my brother had words with you."

Aegon looked startled for a brief moment._ Oh, he has_.

"You are such a child," he told her, and Dany laughed.

She turned her gaze to the tourney ground, where Ser Balon Swann was holding his own against some hedge knight from the Reach. A mace swung past his head, dangerously close, and the crowd murmured.

"I talked to Tyrion," Aegon began again, distracting her from the melee. "Of the place he's seen, the languages he has heard, the people he has met. And it dawned to me…" there was a twinkle in his eyes Dany recognized, and she knew what he was about to say.

"I should broaden my horizons, shouldn't I? I am a prince. What better way to learn than to see with my own eyes…"

_Yes_, she thought. _What better way?_

"I have half a mind to go see Valyria, dear Dany." He concluded, as if she hadn't realized it as soon as he started speaking. "Would you want to come with me?"

Daenerys celebrated her thirteenth name day with a tournament, and a promise. Ser Jaime Lannister won the tournament and made his way to the seats to lay a purple crown of orchid buds on his sister's golden curls, and Dany realized she didn't much care.

She had more important things to worry about.

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**A/N**: So, umh, that's it. A bit slow, I am aware, and by no means perfect; and that's the reason why I took so long.  
I have a full-lenght story planned, and absolutely no promise of regular updates, simply because I can't remember the last time I had a full night's sleep. However, every chapter is completely planned out and the next one is halfway written, so I guess we'll see how it goes.  
Also, I do not have a beta reader, and constructive criticisms is more than welcome.

**Edit**: _SwordsmanofS_ pointed out something in a review - basically, that Jon shouldn't be named Jon since he wasn't raised by Ned. You are absolutely right, and this universe's Jon has in fact a Targ name, but I thought it would have been somewhat confusing for the reader, and I made Jon an in-universe nickname. It's explained in _Those Who Stand Long_. Thank you for pointing it out!


	2. Robb

**A/N: **So, I hate this chapter. Really, _really_ do, which is why it's so short – couldn't wait to finish it. Why is writing Robb so damn hard?

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_**II  
Robb**_

There were a great deal many things that Robb Stark had come to love about the North, and yet the way of the First Men was not one of them.

He was fourteen years old, and had never seen a man dying before; and certainly he had never expected to see such for the first time by the hands of his own father. It was, however, the way of the North, as Father had taken care to explain him more time than he could count. It was the way of the Starks, the way Robb himself would be expected to follow someday.

And so they had gone, riding out with the grey lights of the dawn, to see a man die. The ground was icy and the air brisk, the longsword in Father's hands taller than Robb himself was. _It will be mine one day_, Robb told himself, trying to picture it, to embrace the firm certainty that everyone else seemed to take for granted.

_The kind dies, and a new one rises. The lord rules and his son after him_, and such was the way of life in Westeros. _Unless there is a rebellion_, Robb found himself thinking, and the voice in his thoughts sounded like Sansa's, but he pushed it away all the same.

They arrived after what felt like only a few minutes, and the deserter was dead even sooner. His head rolled to the ground with an odd spin, a flash of terror frozen in the dead man's eyes, and it should have been scary but it wasn't. All he could think was that the man was missing parts of his ears, and how that must have happened, and if he'd had trouble hearing, without his ears.

"Are you well, Robb?" Father asked on the way back, and what could he say?

"I expected, something…" that didn't sound like his voice. "Something different." In truth, he had expected nothing at all. Robb had seen bodies, of course, but never a dying an; not until today.

"It was a good thing no one else came," he added, and it was. Rickon wouldn't have understood what was happening, and Bran would have tried his best to stay calm and ended up having nightmares that night. _As for the girls, well…_ They would have endured it, perhaps even better than Robb himself had, but the North was not Braavos, and death was not something for a lady's eyes.

_No, the North is not Braavos_, Robb thought to himself. Braavosi prided themselves on their freedom, from the old Valyrian Freehold and the trappings of nobility alike. Their princes were merchants, their Sealord chosen among peers, and even the humblest of men could raise high.

_They don't kill deserters in Braavos_.

"Why did he escape?" Robb found himself asking. It seemed important, somehow. Why face almost certain death? There had to be a reason. Or perhaps the ranger had been tired, old as he was, tired of living a life of endless cold in exile at the edge of the world. _Maybe he thought trying to run away was worth getting caught_.

Father was hesitating; Robb noticed him choosing his world with care. "I believe he might have gone mad," he said at last, and there was sadness in his voice.

"He was raving, talking of monsters and old wives' tales." The unspoken, _I wouldn't have wanted him dead_, hung in the air between them. His father cared deeply for the laws of the kingdom, Robb had come to learn in those short, last few weeks; to hear Eddard Stark talk of justice, one would never believe he'd once rebelled against his king.

"Men of the Night's Watch serve for life, Robb," he concluded, half an apology to Robb's ears, or perhaps he was just imagining it.

They kept riding in silence for a while, ahead of the men, Robb doing his best to keep the pace. He had been practicing every day since his arrival, doing fairly well with bow and arrows and even those straight-bladed Westerosi swords he'd never even held before; but riding was still hard, his pride as bruised and sore as his thighs every time he had to dismount after a full day's ride. Today, Robb knew it already, would be no different.

"Lord Commander Mormont wrote me a letter," Father began again after a while, when they could almost make out the sharp edges of Winterfell's walls and towers against the horizon. "He invites me to Castle Black in a month's time or so." A Maester Aemon had written several times before, Robb knew, but the Lord Commander never had. Mormont. He wondered for a while why the name sounded so familiar. A noble House Maester Luwin had made them study, he was almost certain. _It'd make sense, for the Lord Commander to be from a northern house._

"Would you like to come with me, Robb?" Father asked. He sounded every inch as polite and distant and _…noble_ as he'd been since King's Landing and never before, but there was warmth in his voice, too.

"The Wall is truly a sight to be seen."

Robb smiled against the cold morning air. "I'd like that."

Father smiled back and they resumed their silence, step after step. Thinking back to that morning later on, Robb was glad; had they been talking, he certainly wouldn't have heard the wolves.

Robb himself had never even seen a wolf before, but the small forms in the snow couldn't be anything else.

"Direwolves," Jory whispered, when he reached him. "See how long their pelt is already, and they cannot be older than a few hours, look at the eyes."

There were pups laying in the snow, so small Robb could not quite reconcile the frail-looking creatures with the enormous beasts whose pelts adorned more than a wall in Winterfell. _They look so weak_.

Father was staring as well, more surprised than Robb had seen him in a while, almost frowning. "There's five of them," he said in an undertone, and he and Jory exchanged a look that made Robb feel as though he'd just missed something important.

"What about the mother," he asked. "What happened to her?"

One of the men let out a long, loud whistle at that. It was Fat Tom, from his place two steps behind father. "I sure don't fancy being the one telling the farmers there's a direwolf loose this side of the Wall."

"She's probably dead," another of the men offered. "Wouldn't have left the pups here otherwise."

_And where's the body, then?_ Robb wanted to ask; but there were whispers already, low conversations and pointed looks, and he left it at that.

"Even the little ones'll die soon enough, out here in the snow," Jory said, talking to no one in particular, but turning his head to look in Father's direction, and Robb felt his heart burst with gratitude.

"We could take them," he said, half a statement, half a plea, talking to Father but still loud enough to be heard clearly. "I could take care of them, and you know Arya would love to help."

Robb could have sworn that Father let out a small chuckle at that, amused. Arya had been restless since their arrival, disappearing more often than not; seemingly intending on exploring the whole castle before the next moon.

"That would certainly give her something to do," Father said, and Robb knew it was done.

There were five diewolves, three male and two female; to Robb, it seemed an extremely fortuitous coincidence. He took the steel-grey pup for himself, laughing at the way Rickon did his best to outrun Bran and get to the black one before Bran could, failing; but still Bran let him pick his direwolf first. _I think I'll call him Shaggydog_, Rickon said, with all the seriousness a newly-turned three years old could muster; and they all laughed.

As for the girls, they disappeared somewhere almost immediately after their return, discussing something about names; and it was only the day after that Robb heard of how they'd almost terrorized their septa bringing the pups to their lessons and sharing overly-imaginative tales about the adult direwolf still wandering the grounds near Winterfell, tales of inches-long claws and wolves as big as horses. Robb himself thought he recognized Arya's handwork in that one; the disappointment her sister had shown in learning that the mother of the puppies was likely dead had been so evident everyone must have noticed.

"She's still around," Arya kept repeating, stubbornly, three days later. They were sitting under the heart tree in the godswood, he and Arya and Bran, in a spot his brother claimed to have discovered following Father after their return from the execution. _He was cleaning Ice_, Bran had said, _he looked so sad_.

"You keep saying that, sister," Robb teased, lightly. "I wonder if you'd be so curious about this direwolf of yours if you met her on some road at night."

Arya raised her eyebrows in a move Mother would have been proud of. "You are such a bore, Robb," she said, and turned her head to look at their pups playing among the trees; the grey one Robb was thinking of naming Wind, Arya's own Nymeria, and Bran's wolf who didn't have a name yet.

"Do you think Father will let me go to the Wall with you?" she asked, and Bran perked up next to her.

"The Wall?" he echoed, his blue eyes wide. "Are you really going to see the Wall, Robb?" Bran had taken a liking to Old Nan and her tales, more than even the rest of them had. Even Robb enjoyed Old Nan's stories, never mind that he was almost a man grown, but nowhere as much as Bran had.

"Father is," Robb confirmed, and then to Arya, "I do not see why he wouldn't." Mother might have objected, perhaps, but even if Arya wasn't allowed to go, she could always come with them next time. Uncle Benjen had been a great friend to the Watch, Maester Luwin said, and he'd made the journey to the Wall every year, even bringing his wife along with him before she died in childbed.

Maester Luwin liked to talk about Benjen Stark almost as much as Robb wanted to know about him, but Father got always strangely quiet every time he was brought up in conversations, perhaps mourning the brother he had never really known. The halls of Winterfell seemed full of ghosts to Robb, Benjen and Lord Rickard and the impetuous Brandon who'd been Mother's first betrothed, and the Lady Lyanna most of all, the woman who'd made the kingdom bleed and everyone was trying so hard to forget.

_They are all buried in the crypts_, Father had said once, when they were at sea, _I will show you_; but then he'd gone in by himself when they had finally made it to Winterfell, emerging shaken and pale, and he had never offered to bring Robb along ever since. He had called in a sculptor from the Free Cities to take care of his brother's statue, Robb knew, a Lorathi by the name of Tannos who, people said, could make marble look almost alive. _They make statues of all the Lords of Winterfell_, Maester Luwin had explained. _It is tradition_. They would even make a statue of Robb himself someday, sat in the darkness with a sword on his lap, and he left himself shiver in the warm morning.

"Are you alright?" Bran asked, and Robb took a deep breath to steady himself.

"Perfectly." He smiled, and his brother smiled back. "Do you want to swim in the pool, Bran?"

The sun was high in the sky when they emerged from the Godswood, tired and hungry, and Arya was the first to notice the courtyard bustling with agitation.

"Did anything happen?" she asked, but sounding more curious than preoccupied. The atmosphere gave out a sense of activity rather than urgency, remembering Robb of early mornings at the harbor market in Braavos.

They were making their way to the family's rooms and Father's solar when they saw Sansa, hair wet and spots of pink on her cheeks. "Robb," she said. "There you are. Father wants to talk to you, all of you, later, but you should clean up first."

"What is it?" he asked her, curious.

"It's Mother's sister, and her husband. They are arriving early, and Lord Jon sent a raven to say they will be here before nightfall."

He was surprised at that. Father had been talking about Jon Arryn, but he hadn't said anything about him coming to visit so soon…

Sansa smiled at his confusion. "Mother and Father didn't expect it, too, you should see how nervous they are –"

"I don't think I want to, thank you, Sansa." Arya spoke up, and both his sister laughed.

"Well still," Sansa continued, "you should go change clothes and then hide somewhere to escape the confusion until tonight."

"Oh, I will," Robb promised, fervently, and Arya giggled again, high and fresh and contagious; and he found himself joining in.

_Why worry about a dead family_, he thought, _when you have a real one waiting for you?_ He could feel his worries from that morning dwindling at the sound of his sister's laugh, melting like ice under the sun, and he could only hope the ghosts of Winterfell would go away, too.

* * *

**Note**: To _wherestannis _who asked, quite appropriately, where is Stannis. Obviously not in this chapter; but that might just have been the best review I've ever gotten in my entire life, I can't stop thinking of it and giggling like mad. I'll write you a ficlet just because you're so awesome, if you want; prompt me anything in the comments.

**Beta request! **So, I somehow ended up with about 4k (for now) words of a Space Opera AU, and I swear I'm not even kidding. It has ASOIAF characters in it, but plot and setting were strongly (read: _totally_) inspired by another canon, sorta like a fusion, and I need someone to proofread it and make sure it's actually understandable even by people who aren't familiar with said other canon.  
Anyone up for it?


	3. Sansa

_**III  
Sansa**_

Jon Arryn, Sansa had decided within minutes of meeting him, was every bit the kind man he looked, the warmth plain in his weathered face. The Lady Lysa, her mother's sister, reminded her of her Uncle Edmure at Riverrun but not quite; there was a gleam in her eyes when she'd looked at Mother, almost as if she were scared of something. _I haven't seen my little Robin since Jon sent him away_, she had said once after a few cups of wine, throwing a venomous glance at her husband. _I miss him so much_.

Perhaps that was it, then.

Her cousin Robin must have been Bran's age or close enough, a sickly boy by all accounts, fostered by Lord Baratheon at Storm's End. _Dear Petyr went to visit him two moons ago_, Aunt Lysa had said as well, on the day causing Father to gulp in surprise and cough in his wine and Mother to start another of those conversations about lords and ladies Sansa had never heard of before.

That had been on the first day; and Sansa hadn't seen much of the Lord of the Eyrie and his wife since then. She hadn't seen much of Mother and Father either, busy as they all were with entertaining their guests on top of their regular duties, and she had taken to wandering through Winterfell to pass the time. It felt wonderful to have a home big enough she can get lost in, bigger than the Red Keep even, with towers and glass houses more rooms that she could count. Bran had been talking of climbing the walls, though never when Mother can hear him, and Robb had made his intention of visiting the crypts quite clear.

Sansa, for her part, loved the Godswood, the green lights that filtered through the leaves and the smell of summer in the air. Braavos, for all of her beauty, was a city of stone, and she had never quite realized trees and flowers could be so beautiful.

Her direwolf followed her everywhere since that first day, grey and light and silent, and Sansa has spent hours trying to come up with a name that seemed fitting. Arya had named hers Nymeria, after the warrior queen of the Rhoyne, and Sansa almost wished she'd thought of that one first.

"But you didn't," Arya had reminded her, sticking her tongue out of her mouth. "You'll just have to think of a new one. A good one." And that last part went without saying. Robb called his Grey Wind, and Arya had spent a whole afternoon snickering at the name. _That's almost as good as Shaggydog _she had said, and they had all laughed, even Robb. _At least I didn't copy my name from a book, Arya._

They were both strolling through the courtyard that morning, she and Arya, when Jory Cassel came by and told her Father wanted to see her.

"Can I go, too?" Arya asked, and Jory smiled.

"Lord Stark asked for Lady Sansa only," he said, and Arya's face fell a little. "But you have to take your lesson first, both of you, there's no getting out of that one."

Mother had sent for a septa as soon as they'd finally settled in Winterfell, a stern-looking, middle aged woman called Septa Mordane she had known in Riverrun. Sansa liked the woman well enough, even when her lessons stretched well into the morning; but Arya seemed to hate her.

"Why do we even _have to_?" She had complained more than once, looking as though she was going to her death. They could both read and do their sums, same as Robb, but Sansa knew next to nothing about the Seven Kingdoms and their history and noble houses, and all the customs and courtesies Mother seemed to know so well.

"I wish _history_ was all we had to learn." Arya had said, sighing, on the few times Sansa had tried to tell her that, truly, their lessons weren't _so_ bad. And history was not, in fact, all that they were taught; and more like a small part of what the septa wanted them to do. There were courtesies and genealogies and learning how to do an embroidery that looked like their House sigil, which Arya had said to hate with a passion, even though she had learned how to sew years before, back in Braavos when Mother did work for a seamstress and they had to help her, _and isn't it stupid how we're all supposed to forget that had even happened, Sansa?_

They all forgot soon enough, Robb and Bran all absorbed in their jousting in the courtyard and practice swords and Rickon too young to even notice, and Mother and Father most of all, so taken with the lives they should have had, so content that Sansa sometimes wondered if they were ever happy in Braavos, if she ever knew her parents at all.

Even she found herself enjoying it, this new life; perhaps not as much as the others did, but still more than Arya, who came into her bed at night because their new rooms were too big and felt too cold, Arya who sobbed and shivered, and would have cried even, except that Arya never did.

_What if I liked it better back in Braavos, but Mother and Father and Bran are so happy here, and I'm not? _She had whispered, as if telling a terrible secret. _They want us to dance and sing and look pretty, and nothing more, and what if I don't want to?_

And they kept going to Septa Mordane day after day, learning how to play the bells and singing _Jenny of Oldstones_, every morning no different than the last, Arya looking every day more miserable unless she was in the courtyard with her brothers or playing in the Godswood with Nymeria. Sansa, for her part, seemed to find out every day a womanly art she was good at, and it was comforting and calming and somewhat like finding a new road stretching in front of her, a beaten, well-travelled road that was perhaps easier to walk than any road should be.

Today's lesson was short and to the point and Sansa paid it almost no attention at all, losing herself in the soft noises and heat of the fireplace, in the delicate notes of the song.

"You are so talented, child," the septa said, as they were leaving. "Maybe you could try the harp next."

Arya rolled her eyes as they were walking the stairs up to Father's solar. "You are so lovely, Sansa," she said in a singsong voice. "You cannot even speak Pentoshi properly but you sing so well, some knight is going to marry you and take you away."

"Stop talking," Sansa found herself saying. Arya was joking, teasing only, the way she always did, but she felt nervous for some reason.

"What? You know it's –"

"I said, stop talking."

Things were tenser after that.

They went their separate ways once they reached Father's solar, Arya moving towards the stairs so quickly she might as well have been running, to Robb in the practice yard, her direwolf in the Godswood, or somewhere else Sansa did not know of.

She knocked on the door once, softly.

"Come in," Father said.

The solar was probably Sansa's favorite room in Winterfell, perhaps not quite as warm as the family quarters, but still homely and comfortable. The windows were the best part, covered in expensive Myrish glass, so clear it was almost impossible to spot the difference. Sansa's bedroom window had a glass panel as well, but it was a small one, and thick, and she left the window open more often than not. These _windows_, however… the solar was only halfway through the tower's length, but she could see the Winter Town and the walls and beyond, the barest hint of green meadows covered in white patches of snow.

"Sansa," he called, smiling, and she wondered how long she had stood there, saying nothing. "How was your morning?"

"Good." _Nothing else to say_.

She looked around for something to sit in and found a chair, of a wood so dark to be almost black. Septa Mordane would have scoffed, perhaps, at her sitting without permission but still, Lord Stark or not, this was still _Father_ she was talking too.

He didn't speak again and neither did she, staring at her hands in her laps. _Maybe I should cut my nails_, she thought, absent-mindedly, and it must have been several minutes until she came back to herself with a startle, remembering where she was, and why, and that her father had called her there.

Father was still sat in the chair he'd been when she had first entered the room, a glim in his eyes that was every bit as uncertain as Sansa herself was starting to feel, not a fragment of _Lord Stark_ self-assured demeanour left in him. He looked like _her father_, Ned the Westman from Braavos, a man Sansa hadn't been sure she would ever see again.

He brought his head to rest on the palms of his hands, eyes closed, looking tired. _I missed you_, Sansa wanted to say, but she didn't, and suddenly the moment was over.

"Maester Luwin brought me a message," he said, and Sansa opened her mouth to ask, _What does it have to do with me_, but he wasn't finished.

"From the Prince," he added.

She _should_ have said something by this point, Sansa knew it, something insightful, to show off how much she had learnt in her lessons, but she could not quite wrap her head around the fact that the ruler of Westeros had written something to Father that concerned her somehow, it _had_ to…

"Sansa?" And, _oh_, she must have been staring into emptiness again. It had to be that morning's exchange with Arya, _or maybe I am coming down with something…_

"Don't you want to know what it said?"

She nodded. _I am going to find out either way_.

"He asked for two of my children, to foster in King's Landing."

_You mean hostages_, she thought, remembering what Mother had said had happened to Uncle Edmure after the war, and to Father's brother Lord Benjen. _Hostages, and you thought of me_.

She was standing on her feet without knowing when she'd done it, and staring at the floor to avoid looking at Father and catching him doing the same.

"The Prince wrote, very kindly of course, that he is in need of a new squire, and it would have been a perfect occasion for one of my daughters to come South as well, not to leave her brother alone in King's Landing after so many years spent in a foreign land."

It was very nicely worded, as though he were doing them a kindness asking for two children instead of one. _But if he's asking for a son and a daughter especially, Arya would get herself exiled again after the first week._

"Why are you telling me this? Shouldn't Robb be here, too?" Someone to share this moment with, or perhaps Father had already told him earlier in the morning…

He let out a sound that might have been a chuckle, but sounded to her ears rather more like a sob.

"Robb won't be coming with you, Sansa. He is the heir, and too old to be a squire. Bran will."

"It looks as though you thought of everything," she heard herself saying. There was a spot on the floor that looked darker than the rest, Sansa noticed, eyes trailed on the spot.

She heard a noise of wood scratching on stone and Father's steps, and suddenly he was behind her and there was a strong arm draped around her shoulders, holding her. _He hadn't done this in so long…_

His voice was slow and awkward, the voice of a man not used to making excuses or apologies, or discussing feelings. "I wouldn't want you to go away," he said, unspoken words standing between them.

_Wouldn't want but have to_, she knew it as well as he did, and once again Sansa found herself missing the harsh simplicity of their life _before_, without lords or castles or grand glass windows, but without dragons and princes and hostages, too.

_Well_, she decided. _It doesn't have to be all bad._

"I'll miss you too," she told him. He hadn't said it first, but she could feel him smiling in her hair.

* * *

She told Arya first, if only because Robb was usually a calming influence on her, and she did not need to be calmed now. She needed her impetuous, brash younger sister to make loud and inappropriate comments, complaining about the unfairness of it all, so that she could be the responsible one once again and talk some reason into them both.

"It's the most stupid thing," Arya began, after she'd convinced Sansa to miss their midday meal and _Go exploring, I know just the place_.

"Father's hardly going to rebel again," she continued as they stepped down some stairstheir direwolves trailing beside them, Nymeria and Sansa's nameless one.

"But the Prince cannot know that," she said, even though it sounded weak even to her own ears.

Sansa had never been in this place before, she was sure. The air was cold and damp, and there were odd shadows in the distances that looked like… "Where are we?"

"The crypts!" Arya told her, sounding rather proud of herself, and Sansa stopped suddenly to look at her.

"Truly?"

She rolled her eyes. "Truly. I wouldn't lie." Arya gestured towards a doorway. "Come, I want you to see this."

Sansa had never been in the crypts before; no one had except Father, or so she had thought. Tannos the sculptor had only departed a week before, well after the arrival of Lord and Lady Arryn, and they hadn't yet had a chance to see his work for themselves.

There was a quiet atmosphere that reminded her of that one time she'd gone with Robb at the House of Black and White, but the ceiling was made of grey stone blocks here, and so low that Arya's torch painted odd black shapes on it. There was dust in the air that made Sansa cough more than once, and it was almost as cold as a night outside, but…

"Here they are," Arya pointed, and she couldn't help but stare.

They were the Kings of Winter she'd heard so much about, from Father and Jory's men and Old Nan. Stone men sat on their stone thrones, with long beards and proud eyes and rusty swords resting on their thighs, as though they could draw them out their scabbards with one smooth movement.

The Kings and Lords were dead and yet they weren't, their features so marked she could still make out their faces, their bodies so defined Sansa could almost believe they were simply resting, waiting for the moment to fight again.

They sat by the feet of a Torros Stark, and Sansa could not bring herself to care that her dress would probably need hours of cleaning after this.

"I did not mean it," Arya said all of a sudden, and she found herself blinking.

"What?"

"The thing I said," she began slowly, "about you marrying some knight, it wasn't true. I don't want you to go away."

I'm not going away, she almost said, but that wasn't true. "I am not going to marry…" she told Arya, but then trailed off, because she _was_.

_Perhaps not tomorrow, or next month, but I am_. Sansa couldn't believe she had not realized it first. Girls married earlier in the North than they did in Braavos, and in the South they were younger still, thirteen or fourteen, or perhaps six-and-ten if their took time to make arrangements, but not older.

"I am not," she repeated, and made to stand up again. Sansa had always liked the idea somewhat, on some distant level, maybe remembering Tom the innkeeper's son from Braavos and how he'd bought her sweet cream and danced with her on a market day. _Most women marry, as do most men_, but there was something rather confining in having your life planned out so neatly so soon. She had gotten tired of sweet Tom Trego two months after that day at the pier and told him so, _but you can't say goodbye to an husband_.

They were walking again, faster this time, but even so it took a while before Arya stopped again. "Look here," she said, pointing to three statues that looked lighter than the others, almost white in the light of the torch.

"That's Lord Benjen," Arya told her, and that meant that the older, grey statue next to it had to be Father's own father, Lord Rickard.

Benjen Stark wore a beard like almost all of the men in the statues seemed to, but even so Sansa could see how young he looked. _Died in a riding incident_, Father had said, and she found herself wondering how much different her life would have been if he hadn't died. _Maybe I would have been happier, but Mother and Father wouldn't have_, she decided. _And I would never have seen Winterfell_.

"What about these?" she asked, pointing to the two other white statues. It was Lorathi marble, she realized, Tannos's work, but why had he made three statues? And who were they? Statues were for Lords and Kings, Sansa had heard, but one of them was a woman.

"Father's brother and sister," Arya said, and she was right, she _had to_; the girl looked barely older than Sansa herself, and the young man had only a few years on her, clean-shaven and fierce looking and handsome in a dangerous sort of way. _Father's rebel brother and the sister he went to war for_, she though. _No small wonder he's waiting until Lord Arryn has left to show us the crypts_.

"She looks a bit like you," she told Arya. Her eyes were closed and her features lacked Arya's exuberance, but there was something familiar in the shape of her face, in the arch of her brow.

"She does," Arya agreed. "If they ever try to force _me_ to marry, I'm going to run away, too."

"What, with a prince of your own?" _And start a war_, though she didn't say that, and they giggled complaining over the lack of suitable princes to run away with, laugher resounding among the stones.

They ended up sitting down once again, Sansa's reclined head resting against Brandon Stark's legs, and Arya made a gesture for Nymeria to come to her. The direwolf let out a soft howl, somewhat dulled by the vastness of the crypts, and Sansa laughed.

"She's stubborn," she said. "You two are such a perfect match." Her own direwolf came when she motioned her to, and she stuck her fingers in the soft fur.

"I'm thinking of bringing her to King's Landing," she found herself saying, and felt Arya stiffen next to her.

"Of course you are, Sansa. You can hardly leave her here, can you?"

"I hadn't really thought about it." Sansa pictured her Septa's horrified reaction at her telling she was bringing a direwolf in the Red Keep, but she couldn't imagine leaving her behind either. "Won't she grow up to be too big to stay in my room?"

Arya snorted. "You can put her in the Dragonpit when she gets too big. Maybe she can eat out all the dragons."

_Septa Mordane would be horrified at hearing that one as well. _"There aren't any dragons in the Dragonpit," she found herself saying, and Arya laughed again.

The direwolf was staring at her, eyes big and limpid. Sansa petted her under the chin, and the wolf cocked her head. "We're going to King's Landing, at court" she murmured, too low for Arya to hear.

And then, because it was silly, and it was fun, "I think I'm going to call you _Lady_," she added, and laughed to herself at how perfect it was.

* * *

**A/N**: I think this AU!Sansa might be my favourite character to write, ever. If you're wondering, Robert Arryn is named Robin because his father, despite being a sentimental man, is not suicidal; and that's the same reason why Ned doesn't broadcast the fact that he's had statues of Brandon and Lyanna made, not even to Jon Arryn.

BTW, I'm still looking for a beta for that AU story. Pretty please?


	4. Daenerys II

**A/N**: Brief King's Landing interlude before a real chapter with more Stark-ness in comes up in a couple days. I hadn't planned this one but couldn't resist until I wrote it, because it _does_ have a purpose, even if it's not apparent yet.

* * *

_**IV  
Daenerys**_

Daenerys did not have the possibility to talk to Tyrion Lannister two days later, or even ten. Cersei did indeed depart for the Rock, to her and Aegon's delight; but Viserys left with her as well, and Lord Tyrion joined him, for some reason Dany could not quite fathom.

"They used to be close as children," Rhae explained Dany when she asked, during a quiet midday stroll through the gardens. "Just think of Cersei's face when she found out she would have to deal with Viserys _and_ her brother both, when what she really wanted was to get away from them."

Rhaenys had on a mischievous face as she said that, and Dany herself almost laughed before remembering it was her brother's marriage they were discussing and, _really_, they oughtn't be so amused about it.

"You are such a terrible gossip," she told Rhae, half-heartedly.

"You should hear Ellaria then," Rhaenys told her, smiling. "What did you wanted with Tyrion Lannister anyway?"

Daenerys found herself slowing down without really meaning to, her steps lighter as she glanced around and took in her surroundings, the lushness of the gardens in bloom and the pleasant warmth of the air, birds singing in the distance. Everything was perfect, she decided, and spotless, and so dreadfully _boring_ she felt almost ready to scream.

"Nothing," she said. "Nothing, really.

Rhae looked as though she want to say something else, but she didn't; and they moved on to lighter topics, Arianne Martell's endless list of doomed suitors and Garlan Tyrell's rumoured impending marriage. The sun was at its peak in the sky by the time they returned inside, and Dany caught the occasion to make her way to her rooms.

"I am not feeling well," she told Rhaenys, soft and demure, the way. "Must be the heat, will you make my excuses for me?"

And she walked away without waiting for an answer, as fast as she dared; way from the pretty courtesies and _suffocating_ perfection all around her, day after day; and she wondered why she's feeling so bothered by everything, all of a sudden.

_It must be what growing up is like_, Dany decided.

She climbed up to Maegor's Holdfast, step after step, passing by her door without stopping. It was silence she'd wanted, and she had it; walking through corridors that were completely empty but for the occasional servant who curtsied and scrammed away, anxious to get to the kitchens in time for the midday meal.

Daenerys kept going, stopping occasionally to take a peek inside an half-open door, looking, _searching_. She had always known that her brother Rhaegar had a library in Maegor's, a beautiful set of rooms with piles upon piles of books he no longer had time to read, the dream of every Maester worth of his chain. She had even been there once or twice, she _must_ have; and if she could just _remember_ where it was…

"Dany."

She winced, taken by surprise, and raised her head to look straight in front of her. She was, Dany realized, not even a foot away from Jon's chest.

"I am sorry," she told him. "I wasn't paying attention."

"I can see that," he teased. "Shouldn't you be at the table in the hall?"

"I needed some quiet," Daenerys said, feeling guilt at the flick of worry that passed on his face. "Shouldn't _you_?" she retorted, and he grimaced.

"I should, but Ser Lyn almost killed me in the yard today." He offered her a smile. "I think I can be excused for being late, today. Do you… where you going anywhere?"

Which meant he'd seen her rushing through the corridors like a mad person, and Dany was glad he'd been the one she'd met and not Aegon, who would have teased her mercilessly.

"I needed to be alone," Dany told him, which wasn't far from the truth. "And I remembered your father has a library room here, and how peaceful it is, but I can't remember where it is."

Jon raised his eyebrow slightly, but he did not say anything at the evident oddity of her looking for a library room to rest, instead of her own bedroom. Nor did he make any of the obvious septa jokes Aegon would have done, or any Viserys's condescending looks at the thought of women and books. He merely shrugged, looking pensive.

"He does," he said. "You passed it."

Jon made his way to a door she'd overlooked in passing, old and unused as it looked. The wood was painted in the same golden red of all the other doors in that wing, the knob polished to shine, but the air inside was stale.

Dany headed for the window as soon as she entered the room, the painted Myr glass dusty and stained with fingerprints, letting the hot summer breeze inside.

"You should close it before you leave," Jon said, sounding amused. "The servants have better things to do than clean in here, and if you don't close it yourself you'll find a nest of bats next time you come here."

"Do you come here often?" Dany asked, observing the way he moved around the room with practiced ease.

"Quite," he sounded neutral, but she couldn't hide her surprise.

"I didn't know," she said; and Jon just _looked_ at her, until she realized. "Right. I can – I will not tell if you don't want people to know."

By _people_ she meant her brother, but he surprised her with a laugh. "It is not a secret, Dany. Elia even sends me to fetch her books every fortnight, if you want to know; I just –" he shrugged, and she understood.

"Right," Dany told him. "Thank you."

And she made her way to the closest shelf, rows and rows of ancient volumes standing one against the other, piled up from the floor to the ceiling. Dany skimmed through the titles, taking in as many as they could; mostly written in Westerosi, some in Valyrian, a few others in languages she couldn't even recognize.

"You would want to read the blue one first." It was Jon, still; she hadn't even noticed he was still there.

"As I am now hopelessly late," he gave her a grin. "I figure it won't change things if I lose any more time. That one with the blue leather cover," Jon pointed at a rather big volume that looked like an account book, no traces of dust at all. "Is a list of all the books in this room, their title, and even where they are, for the most part."

_That much precision does sound like Rhaegar_, Dany thought with a smile. Her meticulous, fastidious brother was probably the one who decided to write a list in the first place.

"If I can ask," Jon said. "What are you looking for?"

Dany felt a wave of indecision. There was so _much_ there, so many new things. "I don't really know what I'm searching for."

"Yes you do." He said it with such conviction to leave Dany wide-eyed in surprise. "You know you do _not_ want Ghiscari poetry, I suppose, and you probably don't want to read about the history of medicine in the Citadel either."

She suppressed a giggle, wondering _why_ Rhaegar would even have books on Ghiscari poetry. "I do not. In fact," she felt embarrassed all of a sudden, but kept going. "I was looking for books about the East. I did not have a chance to talk with Lord Tyrion, but there was so much I wanted to ask him, perhaps I can find something in one of these books…"

"There are enough books on the East here to last you until your wedding night." Jon interrupted. "But he will be back soon enough, Tyrion Lannister. Along with your brother _and_ his wife, or so Ser Jaime told me."

That was… _good_ to know, Dany supposed. The good outweighed the bad, Viserys and his children for his wife; it was a trade she did not mind making.

She opened the big volume Jon had pointed to her, sitting on a leather-stuffed chair by the open window and trying not to imagine just how dirty her dress would be by the time she stood up. Dany passed her fingers lightly over the pages filled with Rhaegar's delicate hand; wondering just how long it'd taken him to write every word, every single letter; picturing her brother as a young man, purple eyes narrowed in concentration, ink-stains on his hands.

Jon had been right; there were so many books in the room, _too_ many, even, for her to read them all. She wondered idly how many Jon had read, and then how many Rhaegar had; but that was a pointless question, she decided. She knew her brother, after all; he surely had read _all_ of them.

Patience had never been one of Daenerys's strong suits, and she found herself turning page after page, scanning the text more than reading. The volumes were listed by title, as she'd expected from Rhaegar, going from _A compendium of ancient Dothraki history_ to _Zealotry: a history of prosecution in Astapor_; and she skimmed through list after list, about Asshai and Essos and everything she'd ever wanted to know.

The books were all in their place, she noticed delighted once she finally decided to read some; all of them but a copy of some Old Valyrian prophecy, that had been switched with a Tully genealogy when Dany went looking. _Doesn't matter_, she thought, taking hold of a first-hand account of a sea voyage across the Narrow Sea instead.

Dany remained in the room for more than an hour, only occasionally rising from her seat to add a new volume to her own small, but growing, pile. She remembered to close the window before leaving, making her way to her rooms through corridors now once again crowded, ignoring the curious looks of the servants and dignitaries who passed her by.

She read page after page for the rest of the day, only stopping for dinner, and then again after that, by the feeble light of her candles. She read through all the next morning as well, claiming sickness; and when she went to table the following day Aegon took her aside, and told her that Lord Stark's daughter and son had arrived to court.

* * *

**A/N**: *me whistles* still looking for that beta, tra-la-la


	5. Eddard

**EDIT: **This is a REPOST, y'all! I'm very sorry for the double allert for those of you who are following the story; but I realized today that somehow chapter 5 got deleted, so I'm uploading it again. Chapter 6 will be up by the end of the week, I think.

* * *

**V  
Eddard**

* * *

The last time Ned Stark had seen the Wall, it had been winter.

He'd been seven-and-ten, then, and a Lord's second son, green and proud and so hopelessly young; and it had been barely a year after that the nights has started to grow shorter and the days warmer, and the whole realm had been called together to celebrate the new spring.

It had been a lie, Ned knew that now, the spring and the happiness and the celebration, all of it; and he'd left Winterfell at Brandon's side to return a lord and a rebel, and then he hadn't returned at all.

And now it was summer again, the first one since that of Lyanna and Robert's deaths and the longest in living memory. Ned was five-and-thirty now, father of five and made a lord himself two times, through circumstances so unusual he wouldn't have believed his own story, hadn't he been the one who'd lived it; and still the Wall stood, untouched and unchanged.

_As it always has_, Ned found himself thinking. _And always will, even when there'll be nothing left of us all but dust_.

They'd left Winterfell shortly after Jon and the Lady Lysa, only a few days after Sansa and Bran's departure for King's Landing. He'd said farewell to his children that day feeling the weight of his past on his shoulders, trying not to think of the day he'd bid goodbye to his own father in that very courtyard, and how his body had looked, charred by the fire.

Ned had taken only Robb with him, despite all of Arya's protests. Catelyn hadn't said anything, of course, but he knew her well enough to understand that she wouldn't want to take another child away from her, not so soon. _There will be other times_, he'd told Arya; and thought to himself, _perhaps next time Cat could come, as well_.

He'd waited ten years to show her his North.

They'd reached the Wall two days prior, arriving as the night fell; and the day after that had brought a snow storm so vicious, it'd made it hard to see more than half a foot from one's nose. The Lord Commander had been called away by the First Builder, to sort out some mess or another, and Ned had barely left his own quarters in the King's Tower. Robb had done the same, returning inside after only a few minutes in the snow, and Ned had laughed at the surprise on his son's face. It was his first taste of a real northern storm, after all, and it wasn't even winter yet.

"There isn't much to do here," he'd observed later that night. "Am I right?"

"You could ask the maester for a book." Ned had suggested, but he knew all too well that simple boredom wasn't all that Robb was referring to. "I heard the Watch's library is very extensive."

His son hadn't looked impressed at all. "What I meant, Father," he'd begun, then paused; but Ned had _known_ then. He remembered thinking same question that he saw unexpressed in Robb's eyes; he'd wanted to ask it to his own father, once.

Ned had been born and raised in Winterfell, though, and some questions simply weren't asked; not even when he still couldn't understand. He knew what Robb wanted to know. _Why would men want to join the Night's Watch?_

_Why indeed_, Ned wondered even now, on their second day of their stay and the first one he was spending outside, walking side by side with Lord Mormont, Robb behind them, taking in the old majesty of the Wall, and the old ruins standing in its shadows.

Singers told stories of the Long Night and of the northern wildness, of life beyond the edge of the world. They made living on the Wall sound so grand, with their stories of the great victories of the past; and in the meanwhile the Watch dwindled away, man after man disappearing in the snows, unsung and forgotten.

It had taken Ned the better part of his boyhood to see it, just how harsh reality was behind its pretty frocks of legend; and the North was no exception, guarded by criminals and prisoners, with too few good men to keep the rest in line. He remembered how disillusioned he'd felt back then and wondered what it could be like for Robb, faced with one of the North's ugliest truths, and so soon.

_I could have been here myself_, Ned thought all of a sudden; and it was odd that the thought had never occurred to him before.

He could have been a Black Brother had had circumstances been different, together with Jon and Stannis Baratheon and half their armies. He probably _would_ have, had the choice been Aerys's to make, the Wall or perhaps death; but in the end Rhaegar had taken the throne his men had fought so long to protect from Robert, and it was only thanks to the questionable sense of justice of the Prince of Dragonstone that Ned was here today, standing by the Wall as the Warden of the North and not one of its Watchmen.

That was the truth, as much as it pained him to owe anything to the man responsible for his family's ruin; and it was also the truth that Westeros's oldest and once most valued brotherhood was now only a mean of escape for criminals and prisoners, destitute knights and third sons. Robb deserved a truthful answer, Ned decided then; and he would have it, even if he'd never really asked.

He spent that second morning talking to Lord Mormont, whom he hadn't seen since halfway through the war, discussing wildling raiders and deserters.

"Our rangers keep disappearing," The Lord Commander said. "They go out, some return, a good half doesn't. We find the body, or sometimes they desert; but mostly just disappear."

"And then there's that King beyond the Wall," he shook his head, tired. "What a shame. Have you heard of Mance Rayder, Lord Stark?"

Ned had heard of the new king of the wildlings about a dozen times since his return, from a dozen different people. Some told him that he'd been born an ironborn raider in Pyke; or a villager in the Gift; or beyond the Wall, the son of a ranger and a wildling. What they all agreed on was that Mance Rayder had been a ranger himself before deserting and, looking at Mormont's face, Ned figured it had to be true.

"I was thinking of resettling the lands in the Gift," Ned told the Lord Commander later that evening. "Once everything is all settled in Winterfell."

They were alone by then, only the two of them in Lord Mormont's own quarters, sharing a supper of meat stew and onions. _Same as the rest of the Watch_, Mormont had explained. _We're having a proper feast with all that good fresh food you brought from south, the cooks shouldn't waste time preparing fancy food for me. _

There was surprise on his old, weary face now; and his features settled into a slow smile. "Well," Mormont said. "You don't need me to say that it would be extremely _good_ news."

"But you should hurry," he added after a moment, frowning. "Summer will not last much longer now. A year, maybe two, and then…"

And then no one would want to live in the Gift come winter, they both knew; unless the abandoned towers and castles weren't already manned and ready. _A year, maybe two_. He had lived through summers that had been even shorter; but _this_ one had been so long already that Ned didn't dare wonder just how long the coming winter would last.

Ten _years_, he thought, and winced; because he couldn't remember even _hearing_ of a ten-years long winter in man's memory, and he did not even want to imagine what a disaster it would be. He'd barely paid any mind to the changing of seasons in Braavos, but he was back in the North now; and winter was coming, as it always would.

Mormont was looking expectantly at him and Ned knew the Lord Commander wouldn't live to see next summer, no matter what. Would Ned?

"I will start the preparations immediately," he promised; and he meant it.

The Lord Commander's eyes gleamed at that; and they spent the rest of the day making plans, talking of taxes and lands; looking through maps; putting together names of abandoned forts and old villages, and all of the landless lords and knights who might want to man them.

Mormont wisely did not ask the obvious question, what exactly did Prince Rhaegar thought of all that, and Ned was glad. He was well within his rights in deciding to resettle the Gift, but still couldn't afford even the smallest hint of suspect, not with Sansa and Bran almost in King's Landing; no matter that the idea of him planning another rebellion would sound even more ridiculous to Rhaegar's hears than it would to Ned's. The court was a den of snakes, as Ned had learnt the hard way years prior, and he was determined to do his best so that history wouldn't repeat itself, even writing the damned man to ask for permission if he had to. Just not yet.

After all, he still had his pride.

* * *

The sun was setting when Ned left the Lord Commander's Tower, the sky turning darker as the sun disappeared behind the stones of Castle Black. Up further North one could see the sun settling behind the snows, purple streaks across the white; or so Ned had heard from the rangers. He'd never been beyond the Wall and likely never would; but still he could picture it, ice and blood on the horizon.

The men who'd come with him from Winterfell were exactly where he'd expected, in the small room by the armoury. Ned hadn't felt the need for an escort in Castle Black and, truth be told, he would take him more than only two moons to get accustomed to having guards again; so almost, if not all, of his men were sitting by the fire, playing dice and trading stories with the rangers.

The armorer himself had been a Baratheon man during Robert's rebellion and Ned remembered him, as did many of his men. The Night's Watch took no side and the war had been over for fifteen years, but sometimes talking about shared battles could help a man passing the time during a dull evening, and neither Ned nor the Lord Commander had seen any harm in that.

He found Jory rather quickly, sat with his back to the fire and listening rather amused as one of the rangers went on about a wildling woman he'd met in Whitetree, and his story made Ned suddenly relieved that none of the Watch's high officers were in the room.

"Do you know where Robb is?" he asked Jory, and the man smiled.

Ned was suddenly stricken by the man's resemblance to his father, who'd saved his life once during the Battle of the Bells. Benjen's choice of captain of the household guard had been a good one for sure, and Ned had found himself liking Jory more and more since arriving in Winterfell.

"Tired, I'd say. He's been running around in the yard with that wolf of his for hours," the man said. "They make a good pair, my Lord."

And they did, Robb and his grey wolf; and Ned could only hope that Sansa and Bran's own wolves would serve them as well in the South.

"He said something about looking for books," Jory continued, bringing Ned back from his thoughts. "I think he went to Maester Aemon a hour ago, or so."

_Maester Aemon_. Ned vaguely remembered that there was a Targaryen maester a the Wall from his first visit a lifetime ago, but he would never have imagined that the man would still be alive, after all this time. It was almost amusing, how he'd sent messages back and forth with Castle Black for weeks now and never realized, never put together the pieces. How many times had he seen the signature at the end of a letter, and not noticed? It had to be him; after all, how many maesters called Aemon could there be in Westeros? It wasn't a much common name to begin with.

Aemon. His sister's son was named that, Ned remembered from Benjen's letters during his exile and from before that, in those last chaotic days before it, when he'd learned of Lyanna's death. _It is wrong_, Ned remembered thinking at the Targaryen name. _She would want him to be named Brandon_, he'd told Rhaegar from his cell, the last time they'd talked before he'd had to leave.

He'd ended up naming his own child Brandon instead, his first son born in exile; in what had been perhaps his last act of defiance before he'd let go of his old life and embraced a new one, with Cat and the children, wherever they were. And now Bran was heading toward the city where his namesake had died, and Lyanna's son walked around King's Landing like a ghost, wearing a northern name and _her_ eyes; and it was so much, almost too much for Ned to take in.

The thought of yet another of his children with a Targaryen was unsettling to say the least, as silly as it was; and Ned excused himself quickly to make his way to the maester's apartment below the rookery.

He was met there by a red-faced, scowling man, who informed him that the maester was resting and that _young Lord Stark has come for a chat and went away to wreak havoc with that damn beast of his somewhere else_. The man obviously didn't know whom he was talking to, and Ned smiled to himself at his words.

Ned tried his quarters after that; and Robb was indeed in his assigned room, sprawled on the bed with an old tome in his hands.

"Getting comfortable?" Ned called, and he flinched.

"Sorry, Father," he said, turning to face him with an embarrassed smile. "You startled me."

Ned went to sit beside him, slowly. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Passing the time." Robb closed his book and shrugged, his cheeks red. "Jory and the others are with some of the rangers who aren't on duty," he began. "But I can see when I'm not wanted."

_That_ was it, then. There were only a handful of recruits around Robb's age, and all of them had led much different lives than his son had.

"They are intimidated," Ned started to explain, thinking back to his own first time at the Wall; but Robb stopped him.

"They think I'm some spoiled little lordling," he said, fervour in his voice. "But I'm _not_."

And he wasn't, Ned realized; not Robb. He himself had been, at his son's age and even beyond, until his father had died and the war started. He had been and so had Brandon; but never Robb, Robb who'd started working at the harbour in Braavos when he had been barely old enough, who'd looked around Winterfell wide-eyed well after his first arrival.

"They don't know that," Ned told him, slowly.

"I don't mind, Father," Robb said, and he could almost believe it. "Truly, I don't."

He let his gaze fall to the volume in his hands, absent-mindedly, and Ned cocked his head to read the title. "What are you reading about?"

Robb smiled at that. "Legends, mostly," he said. "The Others. Seemed appropriate."

_Of course_, Ned thought, with only the barest hint of dry amusement. _What better subject?_ "You should ask Old Nan about that," he told his son, and Robb chuckled.

"Arya did, before we left. She said it was all true." He paused, looking impossibly young; younger than Ned could ever remember him being. "It is _not_ true, isn't it? About the Others."

Ned laughed. "Old Nan used to say the same things when I was your age." _And I believed her, we all did_. "What does your book say?"

"The Maester gave it to me, but I think some madman must have wrote it." He gave out another half-embarrassed shrug. "It keeps going on and on about Children of the Forest, and dragonglass."

Robb looked straight at him then, his clear blue eyes so much like Cat's. "What do _you_ think, Father?"

"Robb," Ned began, shifting to move in closer, putting an arm around his son's shoulders. It was good, he thought on a sudden, realizing just how much he'd missed the quiet moments they used to have _before_, when it was night and dark, because they could only lit a candle at the time; and they would sit close like this, and talk.

Ned had told Robb many stories year after year; about Myr and Tyrosh and how he'd fought against the Titan's Bastard, once. He'd talked about the Wall for the first time during a night like that when he'd been barely seven years old, and Bran hadn't even been born yet. Ned had repeated that story many times since then, to Sansa and Arya and the boys later on, about a wall of ice seven hundred feet tall and the Children of the Forest and the harsh beauty of the North; but never about Brandon or Lyanna or his life before Essos, because the past was better left forgotten.

And here they both were, a few years and half a world away..

"I think the Others walked the earth once," Ned began. "And so did the Children, perhaps, but now they don't, not anymore."

His wasn't a story, not truly. Robb had Old Nan for stories, and that book discarded in his lap, and so many others if he so wanted. Ned told him about the Watch instead, the glorious past and the crude facts of their present; and it wasn't long before he found himself discussing Lord Mormont and the promise he'd just made, his dreams and hopes for the future.

They talked for the better part of the night, just as they used to, and it felt as though nothing had changed. There were four candles burning in the room this time, and the air outside was windy and colder than the warm dampness of Braavos; but still it made no difference. Ned felt at home.

* * *

**A/N:** Some people have been asking just what exactly is going through Ned and Cat's minds, especially after Sansa's POV, and hopefully this answered some questions. Also, in case it isn't clear, this Ned never had the chance to clear things up with his sister in the Tower of Joy, and all his LyannaFeels are kinda overwhelming as a result – even more than Jon's. What a mess, folks.

I really hoped you enjoyed the read; as always, feedback is love. Cheers!


	6. Sansa II

**A/N: **This chapter is for Rerosisu, who left me an anon review on _The Queenmaker_ asking me to write faster. Thank you for giving me the kick in the ass I needed; you get lots of virtual brownies, and a chapter that's completely angst-free.  
Also, this chapter's got a few references to a couple scenes in _Those Who Stand Long_, so if you haven't read it already you might want to.

* * *

**_VI  
Sansa_**

"And you must absolutely come with me next time I go into town, Sansa," Elinor Tyrell was saying, face flushing with enthusiasm. "There are so many shops on the Street of Sisters, and they are all so lovely."

"It sounds great," Sansa told her. She had never been to the Street of Sister since her arrival in King's Landing; but that was mostly because she had started visiting the lower city first. Still, Elinor surely didn't need to know _that. _

"I'd love to," she continued, and the other girl beamed.

They had become friends, her and Elinor, in the two weeks since she'd arrived at court, both young girl with no immediate family and too much time on their hands. There was Bran, of course, but he was kept busy during the day, for more than Sansa was, and it was nice to have someone she could talk with on the days she couldn't find the time to sneaking out into the city.

Sansa had found herself liking King's Landing more and more by the day; certainly more than she had during her first visit. It was no Braavos, for certain, and never would be; but once she accepted that, Sansa found her new life in the Red Keep to be easier than she'd expected. There were just as many lords and ladies around as she'd imagined, and Sansa would never, _ever_ remember all the names; but they most kept by themselves within their own circles, and she no longer was scared of being singled out.

Her room was right next to Elinor's, and spacious enough that she could keep Lady in it without any problems. The city outside was vibrant and full of life – the smell was as terrible as it had been the first time around; but seeing the sun rise from the sea every morning more than made up for it. She'd been in the Great Sept and in Cobbler Square, visited the twisty maze behind the Street of Flour and the docks, and there was still so much to see.

Sansa had brought the only two dresses she still had from Braavos for the express purpose of visiting the city – Robb had been the one to suggest it, the night before her departure, and they'd both laughed imagining Mother's face if she had known. She had never been out visiting shops, however, not like Elinor meant to, all dressed up as Lady Sansa; and now that the other girl had mentioned it, she couldn't wait.

The thing was, Sansa had decided early on, that she had so much time to waste; and nothing to do.

_Shouldn't be some sort of hostage feel more _exciting_?_

They were officially both ladies-in-waiting to Princess Rhaenys, Elinor and her; but Princess Rhaenys was almost five years older than Sansa and bold as brass, and surely didn't need anyone to wait on her. The princess spent most of her days with her family or with some Dornish knight – which seemed to scandalize the court every day, and had made Sansa laugh when she'd first found out – and they barely exchanged words outside of their morning lessons with the Princess's septa.

It was a pity, to Sansa. Rhaenys seemed fun and genuinely interesting, someone she would have liked to be friends with; but she didn't resent her freedom either. Like today – it was the middle of the afternoon when Sansa left Elinor in the gardens to go looking for her uncle Brynden.

Sansa hadn't been informed that the Blackfish would accompany her and Bran to King's Landing until the morning of their departure, as if it were some sort of surprise – and it had been. She'd grown closer to her mother's uncle during their time in Riverrun, fond of his heartily laughs and gruff exterior and the way he called Mother, _Cat_, and she'd been overjoyed when Father had told her than he would be joining them. She asked him why, curious; but Father had only shaken his head and smiled. _You ask him_, he'd said.

She had asked him, as soon as she'd had the possibility, and the Blackfish had given out one of those deep laughs she liked so much. "Of course he wouldn't tell you," he'd said. "He _asked_ me to."

That, Sansa had decided, was good.

"Does that mean that you have…" she'd paused, remembering their past conversations and Ser Brynden's rather unflattering opinion of Eddard Stark. _Forgiven him for dragging your family into a war_, she'd wanted to say, _for losing it?_ Or even better, _have you forgiven him for getting Mother exiled, and in love with him?_

But it hadn't been any of her business, not then nor ever; and she'd stopped and smiled at him. "It is good to see that you have gotten over your differences," she'd said instead, and that had been it.

The Blackfish was tired of commanding the Tully men now that Edmure was old enough to do it by himself, or so he'd said, with a dramatic sigh that'd made Bran laugh.

"And besides," he'd added with a wink, "I could not pass on a chance to live on His Grace's dime and show his men who's the better sword, right?"

And he had, that much was sure. Ser Brynden had no official duties in King's Landing and even less to do than Sansa, and he'd been spending his days in the yard systematically humiliating most of the knights in the Prince's retinue. Elinor once had told Sansa that some of the lords were placing bets on who would win a duel between the Blackfish and Ser Jaime; and she'd even heard Elaena Velaryon joke that Prince Rhaegar would ask him to command the City Watch sooner or later.

It was by the yard that she found him, once again, and he smiled knowingly at him when he saw her approaching.

"I came looking for you this morning and couldn't find you," he began, and she felt herself blush. "I should write your mother, Sansa."

"She would fret and worry and wouldn't change anything." She used the tone she'd perfected in years of discussions with Arya. "I just go out walking, nothing will ever happen."

Sansa leaned in a bit closer, lowering her voice. "And, besides, it is not as if I had anything better to do, uncle."

"That you don't," he said, "but do not let your brother hear you complaining."

She suppressed a snicker at that. _Poor Bran_.

"Do you know where he is?"

Brynden shook his head, Sansa's amusement mirrored in his eyes. "I haven't seen him since this morning."

Bran, like his sister, had been invited in King's Landing more as a warning to Father than anything else, and had found himself in even a more confusing position that Sansa's was. He had been supposed to be a squire, as boys of his age were almost were, to Prince Viserys; but on the day of their arrival they'd been informed of the prince's sudden departure for Casterly Rock, and no return date had been given.

It would be an offense to have Bran serve some common knight, or so Brynden had explained – son of a traitor or not, he was still a Stark, after all – and Bran had found himself squiring for Prince Rhaegar, an apparently tiring task. Sansa barely saw her brother these days; and she'd even heard him complain once or twice – something she could never remember Bran doing. It was, all in all, quite amusing.

They were distracted from they talk by Ser Aron, who was calling for her uncle from his spot by the armory, loud enough that his voice carried even about the shouts and yells of the practice yard.

"Couldn't be bothered moving his arse," Ser Brynden murmured, low enough that Sansa was probably not supposed to have heard. Still, he was smiling as he said it, and gave Sansa an apologetic glance before making his way toward the master-at-arms. "I'll see you on the morrow, Sansa."

"Remember what I said, don't make me write to your mother," he added after that, and Sansa laughed softly to herself, calling out to her uncle's retreating form.

"You would never!"

* * *

Sansa didn't go into the city that evening; she never did when it was dark, no matter what her uncle had seemed to think. In fact, she did not go the day after that either, caught up in Maester's Alyn lessons, as she always did every second day of the week. The maester was young and comely, a far cry from ancient Grand Maester Pycelle who served on the Small Council; and he somehow managed to make Valyrian history sound as interesting as Father's old stories from when she'd been a child.

Princess Rhaenys's septa, Rosela, was young as well, but there was nothing comely in her pox-scarred face. She was good-natured and quick-witted though, and Sansa had found herself enjoying her daily schooling in the womanly arts far more than she had in at home. Both Elinor and Elaena always joined Sansa in the princess's quarters, a guaranteed source of gossip and japes almost as good as Rhaenys herself; and so did Jynessa Blackmont and Princess Daenerys, more often than not.

Of all the girls, Daenerys was the one closest to Sansa in age, only a year or so years older, but they had never had a real conversation outside of the usual pleasantries; still, Sansa did not particularly mind. Daenerys was certainly beautiful and sweet, everything a princess was supposed to be; but she had a certain dreamy quality to her that made Sansa suspect that they would not have much in common – pleasantries were more than enough.

In the end, between Septa Rosela and her history lessons, the second days were always Sansa's busiest – and usually her favourite, but they did not let her much time for when she wanted to leave the Keep. On that particular day Sansa limited herself to a simple stroll to the northern gate, just to wonder _where_ exactly that twisty lane would end up; and it was on her way back that she met Prince Aegon, face to face with him for the first time since her return.

"Lady Sansa," he called, once he'd spotted her first. He bowed his head slightly, every bit as courteous as he had been on the night of her first visit to King's Landing; and Sansa took the occasion to study his features– she'd been too shy to do so on their first encounter, and they had only seen each other in passing since then.

He was handsome, of course, almost as much as his father, but with a sort of intensity that Rhaegar's inhuman beauty lacked. There was a spark in his eyes, a gleam that reminded her of Robb, and Sansa observed his air of studied casualness and wondered what he could have possibly been doing, wandering aimlessly around the Keep by himself.

_Probably the same thing you were doing_, she told herself, before realizing how stupid that sounded. Princes certainly did not need to sneak out of their own palaces, not when they could have an escort ready in a heartbeat and gold cloaks to clear their path if they so chose.

She did not ask him and neither did he, and when Aegon offered to escort her back to her chambers she accepted with all the grace she could muster, imaging that Mother were there looking at her.

"How are you liking King's Landing, Sansa?" he asked, his eyes bright and earnest.

"It is so much warmer than Winterfell," she offered, and he obliged her with a laugh. "But I still haven't seen all of it." And she would always like Braavos more, but kept that last part to herself. Targaryens weren't welcomed in Braavos.

"I cannot help but notice that you have lost your accent," Aegon told her, and Sansa felt herself frown – no matter how unladylike that was.

"I never had an accent," Sansa said, and he laughed.

"I did _not_!"

They were walking through the corridors now, more and more eyes taking notice of them, and Aegon lowered his voice, some. "You may think so, lady Sansa, but I had an excellent tutor from the Free Cities and he spoke exactly like you did."

"That is called a _cadence_, my prince," she said, trying to sound as cold as Mother could, trying with all herself not to laugh. "It's a different thing from having an accent."

"As you say, lady Sansa." The prince wasn't having such concerns, and smirked openly at her. "IT is good to see that you feel so strongly about the matter."

He was teasing her, in the same voice Robb would use; even though her brother's jokes were less wordy and she could get away with some rude answer. Still, she had missed this, some light banter, the calmness of it all.

His words brought her back to the present.

"I suppose I'll find out soon," Sansa heard him say, more to himself than to her; but she had always been curious.

"Find out what?" she asked; and, before she had time to regret her bluntness, Aegon's eyes seemed to light up, his face opening in a slow smile.

"I was planning of perhaps visiting Essos," he said, sounding so offhanded and disinterested to make it clear to Sansa that he must care a great deal – so much, in fact, that she was surprised she hadn't heard of it already.

Her confusion must have been plain on her face, because the prince laughed. "I told you, it is only barely a plan for now."

Sansa didn't quite know what to say at that and merely kept walking, letting the silence between them grow – still, it was a comfortable sort of silence, relaxing even; and she much preferred it to the mindless chatter that most ladies of the court seemed to have perfected into an art form.

Aegon did not gave signs of slowing down when they reached the staircase that led to Sansa's chambers – and, somehow, it didn't come as a surprise to her that the Crown Prince knew exactly where his sister's ladies slept.

"Aegon."

Sansa stopped at that, and felt Aegon do the same at her side. She had only seen the woman in front of her once before, and never exchanged words; but it was clearly Cersei Lannister, golden and beautiful and with a sort of edgy smile that was mysterious and unnerving at the same time.

"My lady," she murmured, with a curtsey that she hoped to be half as flawless as the woman in front of her. There was something uncanny in her green eyes, even more so than in Aegon's purple ones.

"Cersei," Aegon smiled at her with practiced ease. "I didn't know you were coming back today."

"Oh, my lord husband sent me away ahead," she said, a with a laugh that sounded almost mocking, and Sansa wondered just how much of the conversation was in words, and how much in their subtle undertones. She was about to excuse herself when she felt Aegon's hand brush her elbow, slightly.

"Lady Sansa," he said, "as I am sure you know, this is my uncle's lovely wife, Princess Cersei."

To Cersei he spoke in a teasing tone, and it was clear that this time he was the one doing the mocking. "Aunt, this is the lady Sansa Stark, I am sure you remember her –"

"I do," the princess gave Sansa a soft smile, but her eyes did not change. "You are a very beautiful girl, lady Sansa. Tell me, wasn't your brother supposed to squire for my husband?"

"– and I am afraid I promised to escort her to her rooms, Lady Elinor is waiting for her," Aegon continued. "But I am glad to see you back."

And he all but dragged her away after that, walking so fast Sansa was taken by surprise.

"I am sorry," he told her, "that you had to see that. We didn't part in the best of ways."

"I can see that," Sansa found herself saying, without much care for rudeness. "Is she always so…"

She hesitated, trying to find a word that was adequate, but it was clear that he understood.

"Intense?" Aegon concluded, and she nodded. "Depends. At times."

"You should see her when Jon is around, they are quite entertaining. Better than any mummers' show I have ever seen."

Sansa blinked at that, trying to picture the scene – Cersei's eerie green eyes and half smile on some woman from a mummer company – and Aegon must have caught on her confusion, because he started to explain.

"That is my brother, Mother calls him that and I am afraid we've started to use it."

"I know," Sansa said and Aegon's eyes widened, as if he'd only just remembered that it was a Stark he was talking to.

"Of course you would," he began, but she did not give him time to finish.

"I'm sorry, I mean, you told me that already. I was just," and she paused slightly there, once again grasping for words, "imagining how it must be."

Aegon's laugh took her by surprise, sudden and heartily, as if she'd just told him the funniest joke in the world. "Believe me, lady Sansa, whatever you are imagining doesn't even come close."

He was still smiling when they reached her door.

"In case you were wondering," he told her then. "That street right out of the North Gate ends up in the Hook, but I've been told it's quite muddy."

She turned towards at him, surprised, but he wasn't looking at her.

"Just wear some good shoes, Sansa."

It was, she thought, just like something Robb could have said.

Later on, once Aegon had left for good, Sansa sat down on her bed, doing her best to ignore Mother's voice in her head, how she would have said that chair were for sitting, and beds were made for sleeping. She sat on the bed and closed her eyes, to think – that she hadn't talked to Bran in two days, and missed Robb and Mother and all the others in Winterfell more than she could have believed possible; but still, in the end, King's Landing and the Red Keep were better than she had expected. Not quite home, not even close, but good enough.

_I think I could like it here_.


End file.
